


Interlude: When we were wolves

by ghostinthelibrary



Series: Into the Jaskierverse [16]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Monsters, Multiverse Shenanigans, Pining, Timeline What Timeline, and double the headaches for Geralt, double the Jaskiers means double the banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27033829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary
Summary: Jaskier turns and looks into his own face, watching as the other Jaskier’s expression slackens with shock. The other Jaskier is no older than this universe’s Geralt, as lithe and baby-faced as Jaskier was at twenty, though he wears a lavender doublet that’s at least a century out of date. Jaskier wouldn’t be caught dead in something with that many ruffles.“Melitele’s tits,” the other Jaskier breathes.“Hello.” Jaskier puts on his best ‘I promise I’m not evil’ smile. “I imagine you have questions. I’m you from another—”The other Jaskier punches him in the face.Jaskier lands in a universe where a much younger version of him and Geralt are childhood friends and lovers traveling the Path together.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Into the Jaskierverse [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1895545
Comments: 44
Kudos: 347





	Interlude: When we were wolves

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [We could be wolves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25094239) by [ghostinthelibrary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary). 



> This installation of Into the Jaskierverse occurs in the same universe as [We could be wolves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25094239/chapters/60789814) and occurs about six months after the events of that story. If you haven't read _We could be wolves_ , all you need to know is that Geralt and Jaskier are childhood best friends who grew up together and now travel the Path together.
> 
> Thanks to [teamfreehoodies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreehoodies/pseuds/teamfreehoodies) for betaing!

Geralt and Jaskier have been trudging through the swamplands of Velen for three days while Geralt does his best to clear out a region-wide drowner infestation, and Jaskier is so, so tired of the rotten fish smell of drowner heads and of his boots being soggy. The local baron is paying Geralt per drowner head and Geralt shows no signs of slowing down, even after collecting well over two dozen heads. Jaskier is doing his best not to complain.

His best just isn’t very good.

“I am so sick of drowners,” he tells Geralt on their third morning waking up in the middle of a swamp. “Drowners don’t make for good songs.”

Geralt only grunts in response, busy putting on his armor.

“We need to start getting better contracts,” Jaskier says.

That earns him an arched eyebrow. “We?”

Jaskier huffs out a laugh. “Yes, we. My moral support is invaluable.”

“Is it?” But there’s a smile tugging at the corners of Geralt’s lips. “What contracts do you suggest?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A wyvern would be something different. What about another bruxa? That was fun.”

“Would you flee in terror from this bruxa too?”

“I did not _flee._ I got out of your way efficiently.”

Geralt snorts and picks up his swords. “Are you coming?”

Jaskier sighs. “Must I?”

“You might find that wyvern if you stay here,” Geralt deadpans. Drowners are probably the least frightening thing that lurk in this region; Velen is a monster-infested wasteland. It’s clear that the baron only hired Geralt to deal with the drowners, the cheapest of the creatures plaguing the locals, to quell the rising unrest. There’s a wraith destroying crops, a griffin that keeps carrying off livestock, and rumors of foglets trying to lure travelers to their deaths. But at least the drowners will be taken care of.

How terrible people can be shouldn’t surprise Jaskier at this point, but he’s still sometimes caught off guard by the sheer callousness that men like the baron display. Even Jaskier’s father, who was a cruel, remorseless man through and through, would never have allowed his people to suffer like this. (He would have had no problem letting Jaskier suffer, and was often the cause of his suffering, but that’s a discussion for another day.)

“I suppose I would be a terrible barker, a terrible friend, and a terrible lover if I allowed you to trudge through a swamp by yourself.” With a dramatic sigh, Jaskier rises to his feet. “The sacrifices we make for love. Come here, that buckle is loose.”

Geralt holds still while Jaskier adjusts one of the straps on his armor. They both know that the strap was perfectly fine, but Jaskier always finds something on Geralt’s armor that needs adjusting. It’s been just over six months since they left Kaer Morhen for the Path and they’ve fallen into an easy routine.

“After today, we should have enough drowner heads for a decent payout,” Geralt says softly. “And then, we can spend a couple of nights at an inn.”

Jaskier brightens at the thought of having Geralt all to himself in a room with a bed. While he doesn’t object to a romp under the stars (far from it) this area isn’t safe enough for Geralt to truly let his guard down. It’s been weeks since they did more than exchange quick kisses; the last time things got interesting, they were interrupted by a pack of hungry wargs. (Though watching Geralt swing around a sword while buck naked, dispatching the wargs with brutal efficiency, worked for Jaskier far more than it should have.)

“I guess I can deal with more drowner heads for that.” Jaskier presses a kiss to Geralt’s cheek. His skin tastes like dried sweat and swamp water.

“Hm. Noble of you.”

“Must be the viscount in me. Now, stop dawdling, Geralt. There are drowners to slay.” Jaskier slings his lute over his shoulder and strides into the forest, whistling. After all, the sooner Geralt kills more drowners, the sooner they can go get their payment from the baron and the sooner they can get to this promised bed (and gods be willing, a bath.) It should be an easy— if soggy— day’s work.

And it is, for a time. Geralt kills a half a dozen more drowners and collects their heads. Jaskier composes a ditty about a bard who perishes tragically when his feet rot off after too long walking around in damp boots. Geralt promises to buy him new boots to shut him up. All is good, up until they find the torn apart bodies of three drowners floating in the swamp.

“Do you think other drowners ate them?” Jaskier asks cautiously while Geralt wades into the swamp to examine the bodies.

“Drowners aren’t cannibalistic.” Geralt prods one of the drowners’ disembodied torso with his sword. “And drowners aren’t strong enough to inflict this kind of damage.”

“Oh, good, good. Why don’t we get out of the water, dear heart?”

Instead, Geralt goes very still. “Jaskier, get back.”

Jaskier doesn’t need to be told twice. He scrambles backwards, away from the water’s edge. Geralt stands perfectly still for a moment, silver sword in hand. Jaskier feels some of the tension in his shoulders relax. Whatever the threat was, it must have moved on—

A kikimora emerges from the deeper part of the swamp with a roar and lunges at Geralt. Jaskier cries out and stumbles backwards, even though he’s well out of the kikimora’s range. Breathlessly, he watches as Geralt fights. When the kikimora seizes Geralt with one of its too-many legs, Geralt cuts the leg off without missing a beat. But as Geralt splashes down in the water, the kikimora pounces, shoving Geralt under the surface of the swamp. Geralt doesn’t resurface.

Jaskier still remembers the knife work Eskel, Lambert, and Geralt taught him, but he’s not supposed to get involved in monster fights. Geralt gets grumpy when Jaskier breaks that rule. But the kikimora has Geralt pinned underwater and the water is shallow enough that Jaskier can see Geralt’s legs thrashing. Jaskier isn’t just going to stand here while the man he loves drowns. Drawing his knife, he takes a step forward.

Just as there’s a strange shimmer in the air and a dark-haired man seems to flicker into existence right in front of Jaskier, dropping a satchel on the ground right before he falls face-first into the water.

***

All things considered, traveling through universes has become significantly more— well, pleasant isn’t the right word, but bearable. Jaskier no longer feels like he’s being torn apart and put back together. Instead, it feels rather like the time he had to hide in the Countess de Stael’s wardrobe for sixteen hours because her husband unexpectedly came home. All his limbs feel tingly and rather numb, like they’ve been crammed into a too-small space for too long.

He flickers in and out of existence in what looks like a marketplace. People turn to stare at him, gawping and pointing. He’s rather hoping he’ll get to stay in this universe, since there’s a vendor selling meat pies that look divine. From somewhere close, he hears a voice calling his name. Geralt. Heart leaping, Jaskier tries to look around.

And then he’s gone again.

The next thing Jaskier is aware of is being immersed in icy cold, brackish water. For a moment, he’s surrounded by darkness, disoriented from the abrupt change from the comfort and safety of Yennefer’s home to the sunny, bustling marketplace to _this_. Something hits him on the back of the head and he goes spinning through the water. He surfaces, gasping and flailing.

The second thing he’s aware of is the multi-legged monster directly above him. He freezes, panic rendering him speechless. When the creature turns its attention on him, he realizes it’s not the toothy, acid-spitting monster he’s been terrified of encountering again. No, it’s just a simple kikimora. He’s almost relieved, until the kikimora seems to recover from its shock at having a human drop into its swamp and screams in his face, reminding him that he’s still face-to-face with a flesh-eating monster with too many legs and too many teeth.

Well, fuck.

The kikimora starts towards Jaskier and he stumbles backwards, terrified, just as a beautifully familiar head of white hair emerges from the swamp. For a wonderful moment, he thinks that this is his Geralt. It must be his Geralt, in the black armor Jaskier knows so well, placing himself between Jaskier and imminent danger just like Jaskier’s Geralt has done so many times.

But then he gets a glimpse at Geralt’s face and sees that this Geralt is a baby, not much older than twenty. His hair is shorter, barely brushing his shoulders, and his face is softer, with a scar over his right eye. He doesn’t yet have the ageless quality of all the witchers Jaskier knows. This is Geralt decades before Jaskier knew him.

“Why the fuck aren’t you running?” Geralt snaps and Jaskier realizes he’s still standing in the middle of the swamp, staring open-mouthed while still in reach of a hungry kikimora. Jaskier stumbles backwards as Geralt tries to drive the kikimora away from him. Jaskier nearly loses his balance, just as someone grabs him by the arms and hauls him out of the swamp.

“I’m not an expert, friend,” a cheerful voice says in Jaskier’s ear. “But portaling into the middle of a drowner-infested swamp blind seems like a bad life choice.”

Jaskier turns and looks into his own face, watching as the other Jaskier’s expression slackens with shock. The other Jaskier is no older than this universe’s Geralt, as lithe and baby-faced as Jaskier was at twenty, though he wears a lavender doublet that’s at least a century out of date. Jaskier wouldn’t be caught dead in something with that many ruffles.

“Melitele’s tits,” the other Jaskier breathes.

“Hello.” Jaskier puts on his best ‘I promise I’m not evil’ smile. “I imagine you have questions. I’m you from another—”

The other Jaskier punches him in the face.

Jaskier goes to his knees, clutching his nose, which may or may not be broken. “Oh, for the love of—”

Suddenly, there’s a knife in his face. “What are you?” the other Jaskier asks, in a surprisingly level voice, given how badly his hands are shaking.

“I was about to tell you that before you broke my fucking nose!”

“I’ll break worse than that if you don’t—”

He’s cut off by the kikimora’s hideous shriek as Geralt puts his sword through the creature’s mouth.

“What the fuck, Jaskier?” Geralt pulls his sword out of the kikimora’s corpse and whirls around. “I told you to stay back!”

Jaskier braces himself as Geralt’s eyes lock on him, then on the other Jaskier. He knows what’s going to happen even before Geralt closes the space between them in two strides. Geralt grabs him by the front of the shirt, lifts him up, and slams him against the nearest tree with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs. Jaskier wheezes as Geralt places his ichor-smeared sword against Jaskier’s throat.

“Jaskier, you okay?” Geralt demands.

“I’m fine,” the other Jaskier says, just as Jaskier snaps, “Well, except for the broken nose and the sword at my throat, I’m great.”

Geralt’s jaw clenches. “What were you going to do to him?”

“Nothing! Look, I’m not a doppler. Not an illusion. Not a construct. I’m just a Jaskier from another universe and I’ll be gone in a couple of days, so killing me would be a waste of your time.”

A confused furrow appears in Geralt’s brow. It’s such a familiar expression— often given when Jaskier ends up in bed with the wrong person or writes a new verse for _Fishmonger’s Daughter_ — that Jaskier wants to cry. “That makes no sense.”

“Tell me about it.” Jaskier’s laugh borders on hysterical. “Look, I have had a very long, very traumatic couple of weeks. Honestly, you slitting my throat wouldn’t be the shittiest thing to happen to me recently.”

The pressure on Jaskier’s throat lessens and he takes a deep breath. He doesn’t think there’s any version of Geralt in any universe who would do him harm, but he doesn’t know this young Geralt. This is a pre-Blaviken Geralt, who hasn’t yet learned the necessity of holding his temper in check. From the looks of him, he can’t have been on the Path for very long.

“You can hear my heartbeat,” Jaskier says softly. “You know I’m telling the truth. I’m Jaskier, from another universe and a couple of decades away. Or maybe more. What year is it?”

“1183,” the other Jaskier says.

“Huh.” Then Geralt really is young and Jaskier shouldn’t be born for another forty years. Interesting. “And where are we?”

“Velen.” Geralt’s eyes are still narrowed suspiciously.

“Well, that would explain all the swamps.” Jaskier wrinkles his nose and looks around. He always hated accompanying Geralt on jobs in Velen, even before it became a war-torn wasteland. Too many fucking drowners, among other things.

“Why are you here?” The other Jaskier puts his hands on his hips. “This universe already has one Jaskier. That’s more than enough.”

Geralt makes a noise of agreement, which earns him dirty looks from both Jaskiers.

“I already told you everything I know,” Jaskier says. “I have no idea why I’m here. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know when I’m going to leave. So maybe you can get this fucking sword away from me.” He can’t keep the edge out of his voice. He’s cold, he’s wet, he’s miserable, and he wants to go _home._ He wants his Geralt, not this prepubescent imitation.

“Geralt, I think it’s fine,” the other Jaskier says. “I don’t think he’s a threat.”

Which is rude, but also probably accurate right now. Geralt takes a step backwards, but doesn’t put away his sword.

“Where’s your Geralt?” The other Jaskier looks around, like he expects a witcher to drop out of the sky.

Jaskier forces a smile, hoping they don’t notice the sadness in his eyes. _Your Geralt._ “A very, very long way away from here.”

***

Geralt used to think that there was no one who could possibly talk as much as Jaskier. His lover talks the way other people breathe: ceaselessly and unthinkingly. However, it turns out that the only thing that can make more noise than Jaskier is a second Jaskier. Geralt stays within earshot of their camp as he catches them two half-starved rabbits for dinner. He doesn’t trust this new Jaskier enough to stray too far. The man doesn’t seem like a threat, but his presence still puts Geralt on edge.

The existence of other universes doesn’t come as a surprise. After all, witchers wouldn’t exist without the Conjunction of the Spheres. But the possibility of there being other Geralts and other Jaskiers out there makes Geralt’s brain hurt.

“Geralt!” his Jaskier says as Geralt reenters the campsite. “This Jaskier didn’t meet his Geralt until he was eighteen and his Geralt had been on the Path for decades! And his Lettenhove is nowhere near Kaer Morhen! Can you imagine, Geralt?”

“Hm.” From what Geralt gathered from the Jaskiers’ conversation, this other Jaskier has a very different relationship with his Geralt than Geralt and his Jaskier do. Friends, yes. Traveling companions, yes. Lovers? Doesn’t sound like it.

“This Geralt would be lost without me.” Geralt’s Jaskier grins up at him.

Geralt only snorts and shakes his head.

“Oh, I think that’s true across all universes,” the other Jaskier says. His nose is still slightly swollen with traces of blood on his upper lip. It’s not broken, like he kept whining, but Geralt’s Jaskier still got a decent hit in. It could have been better, though. They’ll have to pick up training again once they’re through with this contract

“So, you’ve been to other universes?” Jaskier leans towards his counterpart, eyes wide. Geralt can tell he’s thinking of all the ballads he could write if he got to visit other worlds. “What were they like?”

The other Jaskier seems only too happy to be able to discuss his travels. Geralt quietly listens while he skins the rabbits. His Jaskier would normally help, but he seems entirely enthralled by the other Jaskier’s story. He’s leaning towards the other Jaskier, eyes wide with fascination. To most people, he would look entirely at ease, but Geralt can tell that he doesn’t entirely trust this newcomer. For one, he’s still wearing his knife on his belt. Two, he hasn’t given any indication to the other Jaskier that he and Geralt are more than friends and traveling companions. Three, he hasn’t taken off the gold ring on his right hand that is glamored to hide his pointed ears and inhumanly blue eyes. Despite appearances, Jaskier is being cautious. Good.

Geralt doesn’t say anything until the other Jaskier mentions some kind of world-hopping, acid-spitting shadow monster. His head jerks up. “What?”

“Ghastly thing.” The other Jaskier shudders theatrically. “Nearly killed me when I encountered it.”

Geralt stands up, clutching his bloodstained knife in one hand and the partially skinned rabbit in the other. “Can it follow you?”

The other Jaskier blinks. Geralt becomes aware that he’s a witcher standing over a human man with a bloodied knife. He takes a step back, even though this Jaskier seems as unintimidated as his Jaskier would be.

“It seems to be able to travel between universes,” the other Jaskier says. “At least two that I know of.”

“So it could have followed you here?”

“You’re the witcher. You tell me. Do you see any giant shadow monsters lurking about?”

“Here.” Geralt shoves the rabbits at his Jaskier, eliciting an outraged squeal about the state of his bard’s last good doublet. “I’m going to go look around.”

“Trust me, you would see it!” the other, strange Jaskier, the one who may have brought a monster here, calls after Geralt. “It’s not subtle!”

Geralt stalks around the perimeter of the campsite, keeping an eye on the shadows. He knows that the other Jaskier is probably right; Geralt’s medallion hasn’t vibrated since the other Jaskier first appeared. There’s no sign that there’s anything more dangerous than wargs, foglets, and drowners lurking in the woods. But if this other Jaskier attracts something that might put Geralt’s Jaskier in danger, Geralt will…

Well, Geralt doesn’t know what he’ll do. This other Jaskier is still Jaskier, even if he’s not the Jaskier that Geralt has known since he was seven. Geralt won’t leave him in the wilds of Velen to fend for himself. If he’s anything like Geralt’s Jaskier, he wouldn’t survive the night.

When he returns to the campsite, he finds the rabbits cooking over a fire while Geralt’s Jaskier strums on his lute. “I feel like the last note is off,” he says.

The other Jaskier nods and holds out his hand. “May I?”

To Geralt's surprise, his Jaskier hands over his lute. The other Jaskier plays a few chords that sound the same to Geralt, but both Jaskiers seem satisfied with the results.

“It’s a bit mournful for a tavern,” the other Jaskier says. “You might want to pep it up a little.”

Geralt’s Jaskier wrinkles his nose. “What is this, 1120?”

“Listen here, you whippersnapper—”

Fuck, there really are two them.

Geralt’s Jaskier turns to Geralt with an arched eyebrow. “I gather there was no beastie lurking in the woods?”

“There are lots of beasties in these woods. Just not your shadow monster.”

Geralt stays quiet as the Jaskiers chatter throughout dinner. Even if he had something to say, it’s hard enough to get a word in edgewise with one Jaskier, never mind two. It’s not until after they eat and Geralt’s Jaskier goes to relieve himself that Geralt speaks, telling him, “Stay in earshot.”

“Don’t I always?”

“No. And then I normally have to save you from something with a lot of teeth.”

“That has only happened twice, Geralt!” His Jaskier harrumphs and turns on his heel to stride out of the camp.

The other Jaskier is smiling, but it looks a little sad. “I can tell you’re worried,” he says. “But I’m no danger to you or your Jaskier.”

“I know.” Geralt holds his gaze. “If I thought you were going to hurt him, you would already be dead.”

Grief flashes across Jaskier’s expression. “That, at least, is just like my world.”

***

Normally, the noises of the woods wouldn’t be enough to keep Jaskier awake. He traveled with Geralt for over two decades; he’s long past being fazed by it. He’s always known that Geralt will know long before him if anything truly dangerous is nearby. But tonight, he lies on the bedroll he borrowed from the other Jaskier, staring up at the sky and tensing at every rustle and squawk from the trees around them.

On the other side of the dying fire, the other Jaskier and Geralt are curled together on Geralt’s bedroll. For some reason, they’ve spent the entire evening trying to act like they’re not lovers. Jaskier isn’t sure if it’s out of habit, or if they just don’t trust him with that information yet. But that pretense seems to have fallen away in the dark. They’re murmuring to each other, too low for Jaskier to make out the words. When he glances over at them, he sees their foreheads pressed together, the other Jaskier’s fingers carding through Geralt’s hair. They are so clearly two people in love that it makes the breath catch in Jaskier’s throat.

Jaskier thinks of being cuddled between Dandelion and Geralt only a few nights ago. He thinks of all the nights sleeping next to his Geralt, either sharing too-small beds in inns or with their bedrolls spread out next to each other.

He is so very far from home. And despite the presence of Geralt and the other Jaskier, so very alone.

***

The next day, Geralt declares their contract completed, so Jaskier follows the witcher and this world’s Jaskier out of the forest, bearing a truly distressing amount of drowner heads.

“You know, I’m always telling my Geralt that he should take up a hobby,” Jaskier says conversationally. “Maybe start collecting things. I never thought drowner heads would be that thing.”

“Local baron’s paying us per drowner killed,” Geralt says.

“Geralt also killed a pack of wargs and a giant centipede in the woods too, plus that kikimora, but I doubt the baron will pay us for those.” The other Jaskier spits on the ground. “Cheap bastard.”

“Ah, one of those lordlings.” Jaskier nods.

His counterpart looks at him with a quirked eyebrow. “They have those in your world too?”

“I’m fairly certain they have asshole nobles in every world.” Jaskier hefts his fishy-smelling load with a sigh. “This would be easier with horses.”

“We left Roach and Buttercup in town,” the other Jaskier says. “Swampland’s too dangerous a terrain for horses.”

Jaskier huffs with exasperation. “So you’re no better at naming horses in this world, Geralt.”

“I wanted to name her Duchess Penelope.” The other Jaskier looks wistful.

“See? That would have been a fine name for what I’m sure is a fine steed.”

“Roach is Roach,” Geralt says simply.

The Jaskiers exchange eye rolls.

They proceed into a muddy little town, the likes of which exist Continent-wide. Jaskier has stayed in hundreds of towns just like this with his Geralt— gotten tipsy off barely potable ale at the taverns, slept on the dusty straw mattresses at the inns, dodged the projectiles thrown at him by the townsfolk. The people eye Geralt with beady, suspicious gazes as he passes and Jaskier instinctively bristles, even as the other Jaskier greets every passerby cheerfully, either not noticing or not caring about the disdainful looks his ruffled doublet gets him.

Jaskier doesn’t think that this Geralt and Jaskier have been out on the Path for very long. He wonders if this Geralt has been run out of towns with pitchforks and torches yet. He wonders if this Jaskier has had to stitch his Geralt up after payment for a contract ended up being a blade to the gut. This Geralt won’t face the “Butcher” moniker for decades, if at all.

Jaskier wonders if he should warn them about Blaviken and Stregobor, but decides against it. He has no idea what this Geralt’s life will look like compared to his Geralt.

The baron is as expected, a sneering man living in an opulent house just out of sight of the squalor of the village. He doesn’t even seem to notice the two Jaskiers standing in the doorway as he tries to haggle with Geralt over the price of the drowner heads. It seems that he didn’t expect Geralt to return with this many heads. When Geralt mentions the kikimora, the giant centipede, and the wargs, the baron reluctantly hands over the agreed upon amount. It’s clear that this area has more dangerous things than drowners to contend with, but this baron doesn’t intend to pay for them.

“Where to next?” Jaskier asks Geralt as they leave the baron’s house.

“Next town. Might be a better contract. Someone might have posted for that kikimora.”

“Oh no.” The other Jaskier stops in his tracks, planting his hands on his hips. “I was promised a bed and a bath tonight, Geralt. I smell like a swamp.”

Geralt glances between the two Jaskiers. “That was before…”

Jaskier smiles. “If I can trespass on your hospitality for another night, Geralt, I also like beds and baths. I have a bit of coin with me, so I can contribute.”

Geralt sighs. “Fine, but only if we can get a room with two beds. I’m not sharing a bed with both of you. The snoring…”

“I don’t snore!” Jaskier snaps at the same time his younger counterpart says, “Well, at least I don’t hog the entire bed, you ass.”

“You do that too.”

That earns him an offended squawk. “Just for that, you’re buying me breakfast, witcher.”

“Don’t I always?” Geralt turns to Jaskier. “Are you also insufferable when you’re hungry?”

Jaskier grins. This baby Geralt is warming up to him enough to tease, which is a good sign. “Who isn’t?”

The innkeeper at the single inn in town hems and haws over the availability of a room with two beds, but relents when he realizes that no amount of waffling is going to get the witcher and his two bards out of the lobby. This Geralt hasn’t quite mastered the flat, “are-you-fucking-kidding-me-right-now” stare that Jaskier’s Geralt has used on countless innkeepers and barmaids, but he does a passable imitation.

They’ve barely sat down to their breakfast when a man’s voice calls, “Witcher!”

Geralt and both Jaskiers immediately go on alert. So this Geralt has learned to be wary of humans already. That breaks Jaskier’s heart a little. There are four men approaching them. Geralt’s expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t reach for a weapon. Only someone who was watching him carefully would see the way he shifts his chair slightly to the left, putting himself squarely between his Jaskier and the oncoming group.

The men are all hollow-eyed and desperate, as so many who approach Geralt are. They have the same tale that countless villagers in countless towns have had— something is killing people on the road into town, disrupting trade with neighboring towns and leaving the local farmers and craftsmen with no way to peddle their wares. After a long, hard winter, the locals are growing increasingly desperate and the baron has been no help.

“This is all we could pull together.” One of their men plops a coin bag down on the table. The contents clink sadly and without even picking it up, Jaskier can tell it’s not nearly enough for this kind of job.

But Geralt doesn’t try to haggle for more. “Has anyone seen this thing and lived?”

“Caleb’s boy said he caught sight of a girl in a white dress walking along the road one night. As soon as he saw her, he ran.”

“Hm.” Geralt locks eyes with his Jaskier. Jaskier is sure they’re thinking the same thing he is— this sounds a lot like a wraith, which often means a tricky hunt.

“Will you help us, witcher?” the man asks.

Geralt sighs. “Where was this thing last seen?”

***

“And here we go.” This universe’s Jaskier puts two frothing mugs of ale down on the table. “Finest ale in stock.”

Jaskier cocks a skeptical eyebrow. “So it’s shit?”

“Undoubtedly,” the other Jaskier says cheerfully, plopping down across from him. “But it’s cheap shit, and that’s what matters.”

Jaskier, who thought he was past the point in his life when he had to settle for the cheap shit, tries not to shudder when he takes a sip.

“How long do you think you’ll stay in this world?” the other Jaskier asks brightly, oblivious to the crimes being committed against Jaskier’s taste buds.

Jaskier puts down his ale. “Hard to tell. The first couple of places I went, I only stayed a couple of days. In this last one, I was there for over a week. There doesn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason for how this magic works.”

“Well, you’re welcome to stay with us for as long as you need to. It’s nice having company besides Geralt.” The other Jaskier grimaces. “Not that I don’t love spending time with Geralt. It’s just, you know…”

“That Roach is sometimes a better conversationalist? I’m well aware.”

The other Jaskier snorts. “It gets lonely on the road sometimes. Fuck, I miss Kaer Morhen, but we have at least four years until we can go back.”

“Why is that?” Jaskier asks.

“Most witchers don’t survive their first five years on the Path. So they’re not supposed to go back to Kaer Morhen. It makes them soft, apparently, or some nonsense like that.” The other Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You think that would be one of the traditions that what’s left of the Wolf School would let die, but no.”

“What’s left?”

“Did the sacking of Kaer Morhen not happen in your world? Lucky you.” The other Jaskier gets a distant look on his face. “It was horrible.”

“It did, but not for years after this.” Jaskier leans forward. “You were there?”

The other Jaskier nods. Jaskier is itching to grab the parchment and ink from his bags, because he’s been dying for a firsthand account of the sacking of Kaer Morhen for years but never had the balls to ask Vesemir for one, but he sees the haunted look in his younger counterpart’s eyes. This is one button he won’t press.

“I lived in Kaer Morhen for a winter with Geralt,” the other Jaskier says. “I broke my leg and I had nowhere else to go. It was nice. At least, until the sacking. And then we stayed for another year and a half to help Vesemir put what was left of the keep back together. It’s the closest thing to a home I’ve ever had. Have you ever been?”

“Yes, several times,” Jaskier says. “But I never saw it before the sacking. It must have been something.”

“It was beautiful. Still is. Just… different. Lonelier.” The other Jaskier traces his finger along a gouge on the tabletop.

“You two haven’t been out on the Path for long, have you?”

“We left Kaer Morhen at the end of the summer.”

Based on the weather, Jaskier guesses it’s early spring here. “So you’ve been on the Path for what, six months?”

“About that, yeah.”

They’re even younger than Jaskier realized. He has the sudden urge to bundle them both back to Kaer Morhen, where they’ll be safe until they’ve at least lost their baby faces. Not that Jaskier has ever lost his baby face, but still…

“Do you miss home?” the other Jaskier asks.

“My home is Geralt, so yes.” Jaskier has never been one to put down roots. He has his faculty lodgings in Oxenfurt and his room at Kaer Morhen, but neither of those places are home. For him, home has always been more of a feeling than a place. And that feeling was always with Geralt.

“So are you two…” The other Jaskier trails off with a questioning lift of his eyebrows.

“No, we’re not lovers like you and your Geralt.”

Jaskier splutters. “How did you…”

“I have eyes. And I know what I look like when I’m in love.”

Color floods the other Jaskier’s cheeks. Jaskier should really try and blush more; apparently he’s absolutely adorable when he does. “How could I not love him?”

“How did it happen?” Jaskier asks, because he’s now been to multiple universes where Jaskier and Geralt made it work. What do these universes have that his doesn’t?

“I had feelings for him. He had feelings for me. He disappeared to Kaer Morhen for months and then showed up one day to kiss me.”

“That sounds like the Geralt I know and love.”

The other Jaskier smirks. “Then we ran away together, but he left me in the middle of the night to go back to Kaer Morhen to undergo the Trials. Then I didn’t see him for years until he saved me from bandits who were going to bury me alive.”

“Bury you alive?” Jaskier is horrified.

“That never happened in your world?”

“Gods, no. I’ve nearly been hanged twice, nearly burnt at the stake once, kidnapped by bandits multiple times, attacked by monsters more times than I can count, and nearly been sacrificed to a couple of forest gods, but never buried alive.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.” The other Jaskier shudders. “Anyway, after that, I was mad at him for a long time, but we figured it out eventually. We always figure things out. Why did you and your Geralt never…”

“I have no fucking clue,” Jaskier says. “Maybe if I go to enough universes, I’ll figure it out. ”

“Who knows? Maybe that’s why destiny is sending you though all these universes, to try and help you find your way back to him.”

Jaskier wonders if he ever said anything that ridiculous when he was young. If he did, no wonder Geralt took so long to take him seriously. Before he can think of a reply, a voice calls, “Oi, you a bard?”

Jaskier looks up at the barkeep, but his younger counterpart beats him to it. “I am, kind sir,” he says cheerfully. “I’m Jaskier the bard. You may have heard of me.”

The barkeep looks unimpressed, but he says, “Play a couple of songs, and your next ale’s on the house.”

That sounds more like a threat than an incentive to Jaskier, but the other Jaskier looks pleased. “I’d be happy to, of course.” He glances over at Jaskier with a frown, like he’s unsure if he should leave him alone.

Jaskier waves him away. “Go, enjoy yourself. I look forward to the maudlin nonsense that this universe calls music.”

“Just for that, I’m taking this.” The other Jaskier reaches across the table to snatch his ale away.

Jaskier laughs and settles back in his seat to watch the other Jaskier play, trying to think of anything but his Geralt and all the things he never got to say.

***

Once he gets a look at the monster he’s been sent to slay, Geralt decides he’s going to donate his payment for this job to the villager who saw this thing and thought it was wraith. Anyone who mistook the hideous creature in front of him for a maiden in a white dress desperately needs to buy himself a pair of spectacles.

It’s not a fucking wraith, it’s a grave hag, with a bloated, distended face, a sagging body, and a whip-like tongue that lashes through the air. Geralt has never faced a grave hag before— though he’s heard stories— and he knows if he lets that tongue cut him, he’ll be left blinded and as good as dead. As the grave hag’s tongue comes at his face, he reaches out and seizes it, then uses his silver sword to sever it from the hag’s mouth. The hag lets out an ear-splitting shriek. Claws rake down Geralt’s side and he lets out a pained grunt before he drives his sword through the hag’s heart. The grave hag lets out another shriek and he draws his steel sword to decapitate her.

Breathing raggedly, Geralt takes a moment to examine the wound in his side. Four long, jagged claw marks start midway down his abdomen and go to the top of his thigh. It’s not a fatal wound, but it’s going to hurt like a bitch for days. His armor is badly torn, which is a greater concern. It’s going to need to be mended.

With a muttered curse, Geralt begins the slow trudge back to the village where he left the Jaskiers.

***

Jaskier listens as his younger counterpart warbles out a slow, mournful ballad about the White Wolf’s loveless existence. It’s beautiful, if a bit maudlin for Jaskier’s taste. He tries imagining his Geralt’s reaction to hearing himself sung about as a tragic romantic hero _“born of no love.”_ He would probably beg Jaskier to go back to singing “Toss a Coin.” The thought makes Jaskier smile sadly into his ale.

The door opens and Geralt comes striding in, looking disheveled and even grumpier than normal. Jaskier watches as the other Jaskier and Geralt exchange glances. A silent conversation seems to pass between them. Geralt nods and the other Jaskier looks back to his audience without missing a single note in his song. Jaskier watches as Geralt starts up the stairs to their room, taking in the careful way the witcher moves, and gets up to follow.

He finds Geralt shucking off his armor in their room. Geralt looks up as he comes in and frowns. “You can go back downstairs. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Jaskier says simply. “You’re hurt. What happened?”

“It wasn’t a wraith. It was a grave hag.”

“Fuck. Are you blinded?”

“No, cut off its tongue.”

“Good. Let me see.”

Geralt’s brow furrows. “The tongue?”

Jaskier genuinely can’t tell if he’s being fucked with or not. “No, you idiot, your wound. Let me see.”

“It’s—”

“Let me see, witcher.”

With an annoyed grunt, Geralt peels his shirt off. Jaskier winces at the claw marks on the witcher’s side.

“Were you going to tell anyone about these, or were you just going to bleed to death?”

“I’m not bleeding to death.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” Jaskier begins rifling through the saddle bags for the healing supplies. When he looks up and sees Geralt’s raised eyebrows, he just shrugs. “What? You and my Geralt have the same organizational system.”

“This Geralt doesn’t like people looking through his things.”

“This Jaskier doesn’t give a damn right now. You’re bleeding. Sit on the bed.”

Geralt arches a skeptical eyebrow, but still sits down heavily on the bed. Jaskier can’t tell if he’s being dramatic, or if blood loss is getting to him. “Do you order your Geralt around like this?”

“Yes.” Jaskier kneels to examine the wound. “You’re going to need stitches.”

“Hm. Can’t afford a healer right now.”

“Good thing you have someone on hand who spent the better part of two decades stitching up wounds.” Jaskier rifles through Geralt’s things until he finds a needle and thread. “I’m curious about something though. You seemed to signal to your Jaskier that you were fine.”

“Because I am fine.”

“Of course you are. Big, manly witcher, doesn’t need anyone taking care of him. I know the type well. Were you going to tell your Jaskier that you were hurt?”

Geralt’s silence is answer enough.

Jaskier sighs as he begins to clean the wound. “Why wouldn’t you tell him?”

“Didn’t want to worry him. Seemed like he was having a good performance. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Your health is more important than a performance, Geralt,” Jaskier says sternly. “And I’m sure he would agree.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything.

“Do you often keep it from your Jaskier when you’re hurt?”

“Not when it’s serious.”

“I don’t even want to know what you consider serious.” Jaskier grumbles. “I’m going to give you a piece of advice that I wish someone had given to my Geralt when he was your age. It would have made life much easier for me the first few years that I knew him. It’s important to be honest with the people in your life. Jaskier travels with you. He obviously loves you. I’m fairly certain he would be horrified to learn that you’ve been hiding it from him when you’re injured.”

“Hm.”

Ah, some things never change. “How would you feel if you learned he had wounds like these and he wasn’t telling you?”

“Wouldn’t happen. I would smell the blood.”

“This is a hypothetical scenario, Geralt. How would you feel?”

Geralt is quiet for a moment. “I would be angry.”

“Of course you would be. The two of you are going to be traveling together for a long, long time. You need to tell him when you’re hurt. Tell him when you need help. Tell him when you’re worried about something. That’s the only way to travel the Path together.”

“I don’t want him to feel like he needs to take care of me,” Geralt says softly, looking ashamed.

Jaskier wants to hug him, but he’s fairly certain he would lose a limb for the attempt. “You darling idiot, he already takes care of you. And you take care of him. That’s how these things work. You two are a team.”

Geralt is watching him with a curious expression. “You and your Geralt…”

“Are a different kind of team,” Jaskier says. “He’s my dearest friend. In the early years, we didn’t always get along. I think I annoyed him rather a lot.”

“Can’t imagine that,” Geralt says dryly.

“Best not antagonize the man holding the needle. I would annoy him, he would snap at me, we would argue. It took us years to find a rhythm. But once we found it… well, I’ve patched up more wounds than I ever thought I would when I was a lad at Oxenfurt. I’ve followed him all over the Continent for well over half my life.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Not even a little. Walking up to him in that tavern was the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Geralt doesn’t wince as Jaskier begins to stitch up the wound. “Sometimes I worry that this won’t be enough for Jaskier. That he’ll decide he’d rather live a comfortable life as a court bard. He’s too damn good to sing in taverns for the rest of his life. He’s too good to sleep in swamps and spend his nights washing drowner guts out of my hair.”

“I don’t think you ever have to worry about not being enough for your Jaskier.” Jaskier thinks of his own Geralt, of jokes shared over campfires and nights huddled together on flea-ridden straw mattresses and so many doublets stained with blood and ichor. Maybe his life would have been a safer, more comfortable one at a court. But gods, Jaskier doesn’t regret it for a minute, not even if he hops between universes for the rest of eternity. Not even if he doesn’t see his Geralt ever again, as much as that thought pains him.

The door flies open and the other Jaskier stands there, looking happy and disheveled. “Well, that went beautifully. My new ballad is a hit, Geralt, and— what the fuck?” His eyes dart between Jaskier and Geralt. “Geralt, why the fuck are you bleeding?”

“It was a grave hag, not a wraith,” Geralt says.

“Motherfucker, you should have charged them more.” Jaskier crosses the room to kneel down next to Jaskier. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Geralt shoots Jaskier an accusing look. “It really doesn’t need stitches.”

“You’ll thank me when this doesn’t leave a scar,” Jaskier says.

“What’s a scar to a witcher?”

Jaskier has plenty to say to that, but the other Jaskier beats him to it. “Why suffer when you don’t have to, you idiot? Why didn’t you say something? I wouldn’t have finished the set if I knew you were hurt.”

Geralt seems to deflate a little. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Bother me?” the other Jaskier squawks. “Melitele’s tits, you’re bleeding!”

“Do you want to learn how to stitch up wounds?” Jaskier asks, because as much as he would like to watch his younger counterpart berate his Geralt, that time is probably better spent doing something useful.

The other Jaskier nods.

“Then come here.” Jaskier jerks his head and his younger self moves closer. “Now, the trick of it is to think of him as a very large, very cranky doublet…”

***

As they prepare to leave the village the next day, Geralt is still moving gingerly, though his wounds look far better than they did the night before. All three of them are well-rested and well-fed after sleeping in moderately comfortable beds and eating a mostly edible breakfast. All in all, Jaskier decides that he likes this universe he’s found himself in.

“Your son is the spitting image of you, sir,” the innkeeper’s wife tells him as they head out, nodding to the younger Jaskier. “It’s uncanny. Such a handsome lad.”

Never mind, Jaskier hates everything about this place.

“You are old enough to be my father,” the other Jaskier says, laughing as they ride out of town. Well, Geralt and the other Jaskier ride. Jaskier walks between their horses. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Old enough that I’m not going to answer that question, you impertinent little—” Jaskier freezes as he feels chaos overtaking his body. “Oh, shit.”

“Jaskier?” Geralt pulls Roach to a halt, frowning.

“Hand me my things.” Jaskier holds out a shaking hand, grimacing at the sensation.

The other Jaskier passes over his bag. He’s gone pale. “Are you leaving us?”

“I seem to be. Thank you for your hospitality. You two have been a delight, for the most part.” Jaskier looks between the two painfully young faces, wondering what last minute bits of wisdom he can impart on these two. “Just remember to—”

And then the world flickers around him and he’s gone.

***

Geralt and Jaskier look at the spot where the other universe’s Jaskier was just standing. There’s no sign that there was ever a man standing there.

“Well,” Geralt says after a moment. “You were looking for something more ballad-worthy than drowners.”

Jaskier can’t help but be a little sad, even though he knows his counterpart had to leave eventually. He needs to find his way back to his own Geralt. “I’m going to miss him. He was pleasant company.”

Geralt glances at him with a sly curve to his lips. “You’re more than enough Jaskier for me.”

“Aw, Geralt.” Jaskier smiles, then pauses, considering. “Wait, was that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Hm.” Geralt urges Roach forward.

“Geralt, don’t you ride away from me! Was that supposed to be a compliment or not? Geralt? _Geralt!_ ”

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider leaving comments or kudos.


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